ly bride. And she will be a loving bride to them--she will stand in
the place of all other joy. Is it not triumph for him to whom fate has
denied personal beauty, that his hand--his flesh and blood hand--has
power ta create it? What cares he for worldly splendour, when in dreams
he can summon up a fairy-land so gorgeous that in limning it even his
own rainbow-dyed pencil fails? What need has he for home, to whom the
wide world is full of treasures of study--for which life itself is too
short? And what to him are earthly and domestic ties? For friendship,
he exchanges the world's worship, which _may_ be his in life, _must_ be,
after death. For love"----

Here the old artist paused a moment, and there was something heavenly in
the melody of his voice as he continued--

"For love--frail human love--the poison-flower of youth, which only
lasts an hour, he has his own divine ideal It flits continually before
him, sometimes all but clasped; it inspires his manhood with purity,
and pours celestial passion into his age. His heart, though dead to
all human ties, is not cold, but burning. For he worships the ideal of
beauty, he loves the ideal of love."

Olive listened, her mind reeling before these impetuous words.--One
moment she looked at Vanbrugh where he stood, his age transfigured into
youth, his ugliness into majesty, by the radiance of the immortal fire
that dwelt within him. Then she dropped almost at his feet crying.

"I, too, am one of these outcasts; give me then this inner life which
atones for all! Friend, counsel me--master, teach me! Woman as I am, I
will dare all things--endure all things. Let me be an artist."

CHAPTER XXI.

Olive Rothesay's desire,

Like all strongest hopes,
By its own energy fulfilled itself.

She became an artist--not in a week, a month, a year--Art exacts of its
votaries no less service than a lifetime. But in her girl's soul
the right chord had been touched, which began to vibrate unto noble
music--the true seed had been sown, which day by day grew into a goodly
plant.

Vanbrugh had said truly, that genius is of no sex; and he had said
likewise truly, that no woman can be an artist--that is, a great artist.
The hierarchies of the soul's dominion belong only to man, and it is
right they should. He it was whom God created first, let him take the
preeminence. But among those stars of lesser glory, which are given to
lighten the nations, among sweet-voiced poets, earn